


Another Way of Knowing

by 14winters



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14winters/pseuds/14winters
Summary: Stand-alone prompt fills and ficlets exploring Joan and Sherlock's relationship entering a different level of intimacy. Some may or may not be posted on tumblr first.





	1. You're a Fine Girl

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [msnotmrshudson](http://msnotmrshudson.tumblr.com) on tumblr for getting me started on this! Without her I don't think I would've taken the initiative to write more using prompts until much later (or never). The prompt/ask meme first referred to was [this one](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/150929142093/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you).

“Wanna dance?”

Sherlock was not alert enough to fully register the flirty smile Watson delivered him this fine morning. He’d just woken up to the sound of music playing loudly from the kitchen, and stumbled into said room to find Watson swaying and dancing to the song, singing softly under her breath. At the sight of him, she’d made the aforementioned offer, and he was still trying to wrap his head around Watson dancing in the kitchen wearing pajama shorts and a loose black tank top that revealed more than it concealed.

“I, uh,” he coughed, sleep still coloring his voice, “haven’t had coffee yet,” he said, sidestepping her and going toward the cabinet that held the coffee mugs. He’d slept without a shirt, the summer heat almost too oppressive on the night they’d just finished a case that lasted four days, during which he’d slept maybe a total of three hours. But now it was Watson’s heat he was feeling, as she leaned against the counter to the right of him, humming and moving her hips to the tune that blasted from her phone. Something about a woman named Brandy being a fine girl and a good wife and some other nonsense about the sea.

He looked blearily at her, and she gave him that almost mischievous smile again. Her hair was up in a messy bun, loose strands falling around her neck, and she seemed far more chipper than he’d ever seen her at this hour.

“I think you have several rude wake-up calls to make up for,” she said, turning slightly away from him but still smirking at him sidelong. “You owe me.”

And she pushed herself away from the counter and began dancing a semi-circle around him, singing “ _Brandy wears a braided chain made of finest silver from the north of Spain_ ,” spinning and leaning toward his left shoulder without touching him, looking right into his moody face and grinning. He should’ve known this was coming.

“A single dance will suffice to appease you?” he said, finally remembering to take a mug down and begin preparing the coffee he so desperately needed.

“Hmm, maybe. You’ll have to dance with me to find out,” she said, now leaning against the counter on his left side. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her do that small head tilt on the last word, her freckles seeming to stand out as she smiled in the early morning light. He still had not discerned how her face was able to do that.

Wordlessly he set down his still empty mug and the container of coffee grounds, and held out his left hand to her. She took it with her right and pulled him into the center of the kitchen, her small morning sun smile turning into a brilliant grin again. If he hadn’t been so sleep-deprived he wouldn’t have been able to help smiling back. As it was he blinked at her, looking as sleepy and nonplussed as he felt, still trying to determine how she could’ve gotten up before him.

She still held only his left hand, and swayed side to side, her head tilted back to look at him. She sang, “ _The sailor said ‘Brandy, you’re a fine girl, what a good wife you would be, but my life, my lover, my lady is the sea_ ,” her voice soft, almost a whisper. As the chorus ended, she put her left hand on his hip and stepped a little closer, but still leaving space between them.

He began matching her swaying steps as she continued humming to the song, putting his right hand on her waist and pulling her even closer. Even with both of them barefoot, he was tall enough to rest his chin on the top of her head. He didn’t of course, but the thought had occurred once or twice.

Her eyes were level with his chest, and he felt her gaze move slowly back up to his face, her smile soft and a type of content he had not seen for far too long. Had it been a week ago, before this case? She had been feeding Clyde one of Sherlock’s homemade snacks at the kitchen table, reading a medical journal and drinking tea.

She had the same light in her eyes as she had then, as she looked at him now. He wasn’t sure what to do except follow her slow steps and keep his eyes away from her mouth.  

Then Watson did something strange…for Watson. She closed her eyes, and shifted his left hand she held to her waist to mirror his right. Then she lifted both of her arms, while still swaying gently to the music, and laid her hands over his bare shoulders. At the edge of awareness that was slowly making its way forward from his sleep-addled brain, Sherlock knew what she was doing. Having her eyes closed and her body distracted by the music, the purposeful closeness she was now initiating would not be as overwhelming for him.

He concentrated on the warmth beneath her tank top and the stillness of her hands on his shoulders, looking intently at a small area of freckles on her right cheek, just below her lashes. Her soft humming moved in a steadying vibration through his hands, lodging somewhere in his chest, and he could consciously feel his pulse slowing.

They were barely dancing now, just holding each other in their loose embrace, Watson humming to every note of the last verse, her eyes still closed.

_“But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea”_

As the lines faded away, she opened her eyes and smiled at him, her eyes all but twinkling with a barely suppressed joy. It reminded him of her expression just before she’d hugged him after he told her he wasn’t being charged. But she was more restrained this time—she likely knew his sleep-deprived state was making him far more relaxed than he usually would be.

Her right hand moved up to cup his cheek in her palm, rubbing her fingers once over his stubble, something he knew she loved doing. He was not above holding off shaving for days at a time for that very reason.

“Thank you,” she said, and her eyes lingered on his face as if she would lean up, and he braced for it, but instead she took her hands from him and turned away.

“Sit down, sleepy head, I’ll make your coffee.”


	2. Initial Reaction

“I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

The words fill the brownstone library’s silence like a hot knife slicing through butter. Joan feels the words have come out of her mouth, but she doesn’t feel like she said them. Her heartbeat is pounding and the word “terrified” echoes in her mind as if it’s the only word she knows.

Sherlock is sitting next to her on the red couch, and they’ve been looking over newspaper articles and medical journals for a case involving complex bullet wounds for over three hours now. She’d just been explaining to him how she knows the difference between a low velocity and a high velocity gunshot wound and he was explaining how the victim’s bloodstain analysis told them more than the victim’s body itself. They’d deliberated a while on why the two groups of evidence contradicted each other, finally coming to a conclusion, and Joan had been looking down at the photos of the bullet wounds with a cool feeling of satisfaction in her chest, when the thought came into her head.

 _I’m in love with him_. And the cool satisfaction had disintegrated into a fear she couldn’t name, couldn’t classify or label like a bullet wound or a broken bone or a damaged heart. And she’d looked at Sherlock’s profile as he continued skimming through the case file looking for further clues to their theory. His sharp nose and knitted brows and the way he drew his mouth down when he was excited but too concentrated on the current problem to show it. His toes were softly tapping the wood floor next to her. They sat maybe six inches apart, files and photos and medical documents spread at their feet and covering every available cushion of the couch.

Joan’s hands are frozen on the photos, the images blurring as she begins to realize what she’s said aloud. It feels like the entire world heard it, not just Sherlock and Clyde and the crackling fireplace, glowing in a comforting way that is such a contradiction to the fear tingling out from her chest through her limbs.

Her mind is going from “terrified” to picturing the exact moment when their partnership became just as much about pleasure as it was business. The first time her hand reaching for his had become an embrace. The first time an embrace had become a mutual exploration. The first time they both wanted to feel the other with nothing between them.  The sensations of all those moments went through her like being dunked in icy water and unable to resurface. How long had she known?

“Watson. _Watson_.”

There’s a long pause between the two utterances of her name. But when they finally register in Joan’s mind they’re close together and she turns her head sharply, looking directly at him. His brows are still creased, this time with concern.

He just looks at her for a long time. She doesn’t know how she looks. Does she look terrified? Reserved? Angry? Upset? She doesn’t know, she can only concentrate on the look in his eyes. A convoluted mixture of concern, trepidation, and maybe the hint of fear she is seeing manifest in her hands now, a slight tremor. She sets the photos down in her lap, not looking away from him.

His hand moves toward her hand that’s closest to him, her tremor fading into the warmth of his skin. She takes a deep breath. His eyes are now showing less trepidation and more concern, and a warmth she’s learned to recognize.

She holds her hand still under his. He doesn’t grasp it, he simply holds his hand over hers. He’d only ever see her tremble like that after the kidnapping. It had been the only thing to betray her true reaction, and neither of them had known how to speak of it.

“Watson, you know the love I feel for you is…” he says, his gaze still intent on her face. She finally feels her expression take on the mask of indifference. She waits.

He looks down at his hand on hers, and she feels the breath he takes, a slow breath that speaks of a burden being let go. “It is difficult for me to articulate.”

“I know,” she says, the words almost a whisper but loud enough to let her realize the fear is fading away. The trembling in her hands has stopped. Whether from Sherlock’s touch or his words she’s not sure.

Her hand beneath his turns so her palm faces upwards, and her fingers weave through his. “I know,” she says, and the words this time feel as if they are moving through touch, the silent understanding communicated through the heat growing between their hands, the slight squeeze she gives his fingers, the way his head moves closer to hers.


	3. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love exploring the idea of a Reichenbach AU where Joan is in on the Plan. This short fic meme response somewhat follows that idea, but it's up for interpretation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fic meme response, from this [ tumblr post](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/152877608983/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story), all thanks to [beanarie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie) for sending it!

The brownstone was dark. Completely. Only the distant street lamps outside lit the library, giving him just enough to see Watson’s shaking form on the floor. He saw her before he heard her. Her long hair swung back and forth with her body’s rocking movements. Her hands were curled into fists on the hardwood, and there was a glistening of blood on her knuckles. From punching someone or something, he couldn’t be sure in this light.

Her cries came steadily into his awareness, a flood of sound, an ominous rushing in his ears that escalated to her anguished cries cutting through him. No words, only her cries. Her eyes and voice were dry though, he could hear it. Only Watson could display anguish and anger so stoically.

He took slow, quiet steps toward her, not wanting to startle her. He approached from her left, and froze the moment he saw her head turn. Her face was in complete shadow.

“Watson,” he said her name not too softly, not too loudly, knowing he had to cut through her anguish but not wanting to give fuel to her anger.

Seconds of silence passed. But Sherlock could hear her harsh breathing, see her hands slowly open so her palms lay flat. When she shot to her feet and came toward him he almost sighed his relief.

Then she pushed him, almost punching his chest. Hard. Her self-defense training had not gone untested these past four years. He grunted with the pain, taking a few steps back, bending over slightly, trying to get his breath back.

She stood over him, and he noticed her feet were bare. Looking up, he still could barely make out her expression, but could see the glint of her eyes.

“Where have you been?” she said, her voice hoarse, not with crying, but with pain. Her emotion wrapped around him and squeezed something inside his chest that had nothing to do with his difficulty breathing.

“Watson, there wasn’t time. Let me expl—”

“You said you would contact me. It’s been seven hours. _I trusted you, Sherlock_. I trusted to you keep me informed.” Her voice was too heavy with anger to sound detached, but he heard her struggle for it. She hated showing emotion to anyone, but least of all him. It sounded like walls being torn down, Watson baring her true feelings to him.

“I’m sorry. Watson, I’m so sorry. I didn’t intend—”

“ _I thought you were dead._ ”

Her words ended on a scream. The tears were finally breaking through, and her fists were clenched again. He straightened, taking deep, slow breaths, feeling suddenly the uneven ground he walked upon.

“It’s alright, Watson. Please.” He reached for her right hand, and when she didn’t move away, he took it.

Her skin was icy cold. He felt the blood on her knuckles, and something tore loose inside him. Tears came to his eyes, but unlike Watson, he didn’t try to blink them back.

“I’m here, Watson. I’m so sorry.” His voice dropped to a whisper. Somehow she had stepped closer to him, though he hadn’t pulled her, and her head was tilted up toward his, their noses inches apart.

Her breathing was still labored, as if she’d run a marathon. Her hand was still a fist within his, tight but still. She lifted her other hand to his shoulder, squeezing tight enough to hurt.

“Never do that again,” she whispered back. And then the quiet trembling of her fear went into him, and he knew she wanted to fall, to collapse, but she didn’t. It took all his strength not to pull her to him. When her hands left him, he let her go.


	4. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first Valentine's Day since Andrew's death. Sherlock does his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original prompt, from [ this prompts meme](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/157463400178/137-winter-writing-prompts), was: “We’re not going to spend the holidays alone and sad. I won’t allow that!” (I cheated and changed it a couple ways, but it’s mostly the same statement.)
> 
> Takes place in season 4 at some point, before Joan changes her passcode so Sherlock can’t guess it. (Referenced in 4x04) So before the polyamory episode (which will be a turning point for Joan and her perception of her relationship preferences, as was awesomely suggested [ here](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/tagged/eidetictelekinetic).) It should be clear by now I don’t care about strict timelines, since the writers for the show don’t either.
> 
> And if you’re unaware, season 4 is when I imagine Joan and Sherlock get together non-platonically. And since Gloria was the one to request this prompt, she gets more shippy content than I would otherwise put out. 
> 
> An extension of a headcanon I wrote [here](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/153668838313/ambulanceclyde-or-clyde-the-abstract-artist) (the reason why I was so excited to write this I had to change the phrasing of the original prompt to make it work I cheated I'm sorry).

It was February 14th. A most useless holiday, as most holidays were, in Sherlock’s opinion. He wasn’t even overly fond of chocolate.

But the days leading up to this year’s Valentine’s Day had been particularly tense in the brownstone. This time last year, Andrew Mittal had been alive, and Joan had been dating him. These two facts ensured Sherlock could not leave the day unacknowledged. Whether it was celebrated…Sherlock was not precisely sure about that. Yet. But he had to figure it out soon.

It was precisely 5:38am. Watson would not be awake for at least two hours. He had even gone into her room and turned off the alarms she had set, just on the off chance she might sleep in if given the opportunity.

Now Sherlock stood in the basement, before Clyde in his terrarium, studying what Watson had chosen to put up on the walls. She was fond of art, Watson, though not precisely the same kind as he was. More modern, some abstract, some animals, some people. None of them by well-known pre-20th century artists.

But one particular piece caught his eye, and it gave him an idea. He turned on his heels, his eyes bright and his mind sharp with fresh plans.

-

Joan shot up in her bed, milliseconds after realizing it wasn’t an alarm that had woken her. She fumbled for her cell phone on her nightstand, and let out a curse. 9:51. How could she have slept through her—Oh no. He didn’t.

She went to her alarms in her phone. None of them were on. She specifically remembered turning two alarms on last night. Sherlock had turned them off. He’d cracked her passcode again.

“Dammit Sherlock!” she growled to herself, tossing her phone on the bed in front of her, glaring at it.

Then she remembered what day it was, and cold fingers wrapped themselves around her heart. Her phone flashed the information up at her, she couldn’t ignore it. February 14th.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the feelings away. It was just another day. Sherlock wouldn’t acknowledge it, that was for sure. There was nothing to worry about.

Eventually she made her way moodily down to the kitchen to make tea, telling herself it was too late for coffee. Finding nothing from Sherlock at this point, she glared at the heating tea kettle, wondering what he could be up to. He seldom left the brownstone without leaving her a note or a text, or calling her to wake her up. So either he’d been dragged away on some pressing case that had left him unable to contact her yet, he was in trouble, or he was somewhere here she hadn’t checked.

She didn’t bother with the roof. The chill of the wood floor against her bare feet was enough to tell her it was below freezing outside. So all that was left was the basement.

A few months ago she had taken the nails out of the basement door, so it could be entered from inside the brownstone again. She’d offered no explanation, and Sherlock hadn’t asked for any, for which she was grateful. It had been a barrier she had needed once, but as time went on it came to be a symbol of an idea that still mocked her. The idea that she needed a place of her own to be happy. Having anything belong solely to her had lost its appeal long ago. Being selfish had led to nothing but loss for her; she didn’t want anything to remind her of that anymore.

Her mug of tea still steaming in one hand, holding the railing with the other, Joan made her way down to the lowest level of the brownstone, immediately shivering at the deepening cold. By the time she reached the bottom step, she knew Sherlock was there, by the light and the smell of…paint?

Joan saw Sherlock cross-legged on the floor, his back to her, both his hands occupied by something in front of him. Joan approached slowly, squinting at him in confusion. “Sherlock? What are you doing?”

Then she spotted Clyde, ambling across a mostly blank sheet of large white paper, a familiar apparatus attached to his back.

“You’re…making Clyde paint?” Joan stopped next to Sherlock, and her eyes widened as she took in the scene literally laid out before her.

Several paintings covered what available space there was on the basement floor, most of them in the process of drying. Some were clearly abstract, done by Clyde, while others…

“I noticed you had Clyde’s first and only painting hung on your wall. I thought Clyde and I could add to your collection,” Sherlock said, not looking at her, but continuing his work.

She took a deep breath in, trying to wrap her head around what was happening. “How long have you been at this?”

“Hmm. Six a.m., thereabouts.”

She took a careful sip of her tea, the shock of heat against her upper lip telling her she, in fact, wasn’t dreaming.

“Why?” she finally got out, a strangely warm sensation filling her chest that she told herself was due to her tea and not anything to do with the scene in front of her.

“I have been remiss of late, Watson. Save you birthday, there are many dates I have refused to acknowledge that mark certain milestones, or holidays. You know that if something doesn’t have to do with our work, I would prefer to keep it that way. But your office environment is of utmost importance to how you conduct your work, and I thought Clyde and I could contribute a more homely environment.”

Sherlock gave the lengthy explanation without moving his eyes from the painting in front of him. Joan found herself smiling at him, seeing the concentration on his face, noticing a smudge of yellow paint on the side of his nose where he’d scratched it.

Joan lowered herself cross-legged next to him, setting her tea aside. “Can I help?” she asked, keeping her voice soft due to her closer proximity to him. Their shoulders didn’t brush, they came close, but Joan sensed the strict physical boundaries between them could shrink this morning.

Sherlock quickly glanced at her face, locking eyes with her for perhaps two milliseconds. Finding nothing amiss with what he saw, he hummed his assent and took out a blank sheet of paper from beneath the painting he was currently working on, setting it before her. The small jars of paint were laid out just beyond his current painting, and he moved the glass of paint-clouded water closer to her while handing her a choice of several paintbrushes in the same motion. The way he moved, Joan could sense his relief that she’d chosen to join him, but he was still tense.

Joan took a paintbrush, noting just how much paint had gotten onto Sherlock’s hands and forearms in a span of four hours.

They worked quietly next to each other for a few minutes. At one point Clyde came close to Sherlock, and he took the opportunity to freshen the tortoise’s dry paintbrush with a fresh dip of red paint. Clyde continued on his journey, wandering past Joan, leaving streaks of red through random streaks of green, purple, yellow, pink, and many other colors Joan would take longer to name. Four hours was quite some time to come up with color combinations.

Still looking at Clyde, Joan moved her brush toward the jar of green paint at the same moment Sherlock did. She felt a cold poke against the top of her hand, and turned to see Sherlock moving his hand back from hers as if he’d been burned. He’d left a streak of green paint on her hand.

“Apologies, Watson,” he said, his words coming out strangely stiff. She looked at his almost pained expression and laughed.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. It’s nothing compared to what you’ve done to yourself,” she said, indicating his hand closest to her, grinning. The outer part of his hand and arm were almost completely coated, clearly from leaning across some of Clyde’s creations before they were dry.

“Ah, well.” Sherlock turned his arm as much as he could to view the mess. “I had to prevent Clyde from making art out of our rug,” he explained, giving his closest approximation of a closed mouth smile to Joan. She laughed again.

“I see. Did you ever finger paint as a child, Sherlock?” she asked, tilting her head at him.

“I don’t recall,” he said, almost side-eying her, suspecting her of some mischief. She couldn’t help her smirk.

“Well, I feel I should even the score, so I’ll show you,” she said, and took up two jars of paint, red and blue. She poured a small amount of each on her paper, enough that she thought it would cover her own slender hands. Setting the jars aside, she placed both palms flat in the paint, unconsciously smiling at the strange, cool sensation against the sensitive skin of her hands. Then, lifting her paint-covered hands, she placed them on the nearest painting of Clyde’s just beyond her own paper. Lifting her hands gingerly away, she left behind one red hand print, one blue, the thumbs and index fingers of the prints vaguely purple from the paint blending.

She looked over to Sherlock, only to find him in the process of copying her, a fresh piece of paper in front of him, and taking up two jars of paint. Yellow and green. As he poured the paints, Joan took advantage of his distraction and spoke.

“I know why you did this, Sherlock. Thank you,” she said, forcing the words and wondering why she had to at the same time.

Sherlock looked over at her, remembering a second later to stop pouring the paint. He had that expression that was a combination of confusion and surprise, his mouth almost puckered as he fought to process this new information that he felt deserved more than cursory attention.

He slowly set down the paint jars, his mouth going into a thin line. “I thought it would be worse to go about as usual, Watson. You have not been your usual self of late,” he said, carefully not looking at her. Again.

“I know. But this…” She looked around at all the paintings, including those of Sherlock’s that astounded her in their level of care. She had seen Sherlock sketch but never knew he could paint. “This is good. Easier than…anything else would be really.”

Peripherally, she saw Sherlock dip his left hand in the yellow paint and reach over to her red hand print, laying his hand over it. It caused him to all but drape his arm over her knee, and he came so close she could smell his aftershave and the scent of clean sweat, telling her despite the chill down here, he was more than nervous of her reaction.

But as he leaned back, leaving behind his yellow hand print over her red one, he lifted that same hand to her face, not touching, but his quick eyes considering her in that way he had. She noticed another streak of blue paint on his right cheek.

“You’re not going to spend the holiday alone and sad, Watson. I won’t allow that,” he whispered, focusing on her eyes with a trepidation she knew all too well. It wasn’t just her response he was fearing.

“I’m not alone,” she said, meeting his stare squarely, resolving to keep her own fear hidden. It wasn’t because she thought she needed to be strong, but she knew if she didn’t hide the fear, it would be all she could feel.

Sherlock’s hand near her face did not move, but he drew back his head slightly in disbelief. “If you think to name me and Clyde as proper company on such a date, Watson, I must disagree.”

“Not _on_ a date, no. But right now…” She slowly reached up to touch his hand, still wet with yellow paint, hers still wet with red. When he didn’t draw away, she intertwined her fingers with his. The warmth between their palms was wet, and messy, but Joan didn’t care.

“You’re all I want,” she said, fighting not to look away. She saw his eyes soften in a way she seldom had. And never while looking at her. His other arm came around her waist, still tentatively, but it was enough that she let herself lean forward into his chest, tucking her face into his neck. He let go of her hand to embrace her with both arms, and she wrapped her arms loosely around his waist. They were getting paint all over each other, but Joan thought it only fitting. Sherlock had known better than to make her talk about the mess of her emotions. It was easier, now, just to express them—through everything but words.


	5. Exchanging Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally a response to [amindamazed's prompt](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/158041078288/winter-writing-prompts-5-8-andor-9): "I can't feel my legs". If this makes you imagine the red couch as a bit bigger or smaller than it actually is, so be it. I have bad spatial memory/recognition.

The case was solved. They’d just returned from the precinct and had settled down in the library with take away and ice cream and were now sitting before a roaring fire that served as a barrier against the sub-zero cold outside.

None of this was out of the ordinary for Sherlock. What was out of the ordinary was Watson’s position.

It had started innocently enough. She had come to sit next to him on the red couch to show him something on her phone—an article that related to an old cold case they’d recently solved. After he’d skimmed the article and handed her phone back to her, instead of getting up she’d stayed, leaning back on the opposite arm of the couch, nearest the window, continuing to read news and whatever else on her phone. She’d even pulled down the duvet from the back of the couch to drape over her legs, already clad in warm pajamas, her red cardigan wrapped securely around her.

Sherlock had no idea what possessed her to settle herself thus, on the same couch as he was sitting, but he had no reason to protest. He had nothing against Watson settling on the couch, but he wondered if he should move. But he was not at all tired, and didn’t feel like changing into more casual clothes—he still wore his trousers, shoes, and buttoned up shirt, only his jacket taken off due to the large fire before them.

He got up to stoke the fire, as an excuse to move his restless limbs. He took a book from one of the shelves, then a second, and resumed his seat on the opposite end of the couch from Watson. She still was reading something on her phone, her glasses a bit farther down her nose.

He set his books down and took off his shoes, in order to more comfortably sit cross-legged, taking up slightly more room on the couch. Watson didn’t even look at him. He took up a book and began to read, glancing at her from time to time.

After his third glance she looked up from her phone over the rim of her glasses. “Sherlock, what is it?” she said, her words careful, not yet annoyed.

“Hmm?” He looked over to her with wide eyes, feigning surprise.

“You’ve glanced at me several times. What is it?” she repeated, keeping her eyes still on him. He studied her expression. She was curious, relaxed, the contentment derived from their recently solved case still permeating her limbs.

He hesitated a full second, then held up one of the books he’d retrieved, flashing the title in Watson’s direction. She didn’t blink, telling him she’d caught it. “I wanted to show you something here that reminded me of that cold case. Are you heavily occupied at present?”

She gave a small shake of her head, tucking her phone between the back of the couch and the duvet, before coming up on her knees, bracing herself on the back of the couch with one hand and reaching for the book with the other.

Sherlock flipped to the appropriate page and held out the book to her, watching closely as she adjusted her glasses and began to read. She settled back on her heels, somewhat closer to him. He moved further over to his end of the couch, leaning back against the arm and laying his legs straight out in front of him. This caused his feet—clad in his “loud” socks, as Watson referred to them—to brush against Watson’s calf, but she showed no reaction. She did not move from her spot on the middle cushion, intent on the words before her.

“You’re telling me this,” Watson held the book a few inches in front of his face, tapping one paragraph with her index finger, “proves that the science behind the forensics was wrong? How can that be possible?”

He slowly took the book from her hands, and she let him, her hard stare pinning him with a demand for an explanation. She’d raised herself up on her knees to hand him the book, and now seemed to tower over him without meaning to, her high ponytail only making her look more austere. His mouth twitched.

“It’s a compliment to your attention to detail, Watson. You noticed a flaw when I didn’t. This,” he closed the book with a snap, “only corroborates your findings.”

Pursing her lips, Watson reached behind her to retrieve her phone, then settled back on her heels to type something into Google no doubt. As she typed, she settled more between him and the back of the couch, lifting and then resting her feet flat on the other side of his calves. Her feet were bare, and likely freezing. As she scrolled, Sherlock reached forward and caught the edge of the duvet, pulling it over both of them. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Watson’s smile.

“When was that book published?” she said, not taking her eyes off her phone.

“2014,” he said, tucking one edge of the duvet under his thigh in a motion he hoped Watson didn’t notice. A few seconds of silence passed, before Watson thrust her phone in his face this time.

“Read this. The murder we solved happened in 2009. Proves the science hadn’t yet caught up to prove Houser’s innocence.”

Sherlock dutifully read, drawing his brows close together as he focused on the words. Watson was moving around again, this time leaning to her left to pry the second book Sherlock had retrieved from between his arm and the back of the couch. He barely shifted to accommodate her, so she had to lean over to pull the book out. Her calf brushed his knee and lower thigh with her movement, though he pretended that did not cause him to lose his place in his reading.

“This is a book on traditional Chinese medicine,” Watson announced, holding the book with one hand and pulling the duvet closer to her with the other. Unconsciously, her ankles pushed back against his left calf as she settled in.

That did cause him to lose his place. But he did not look up from Watson’s phone. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said, keeping his expression his stiff version of neutral.

“This has nothing to do with proving Houser’s innocence. When did you buy this?” she said, not looking up as she flipped to the book’s table of contents.

He mirrored her and kept his eyes resolutely on the words in front of him, though not a word registered. “While I was in London. It proved useful on a case. And before you ask, Watson, it had nothing to do with corroborating your claims about Chinese herbs’ abilities to contribute to longer-lasting, more vasodilated erections.”

“Sherlock.”

He looked up to find he had not mistaken the laughter in the two syllables of his name. Watson’s eyes were still hard but she was all but smirking at him.

“You know you’re a horrible liar,” she said, looking back to the book and turning to the first chapter.

“You think I was trying to cause myself more vasodilated erections?” he asked, blinking once at her. She lifted her chin without looking away from the page, her smile growing.

“You bought this book because of me. After I moved back in. I know you did,” she stated.

“Then why did you ask me when I bought it,” he said, no feigned question in his voice this time.

She finally looked back up at him, her expression unchanging even at the sight of his frown. “To prove how horrible a liar you are,” she said.

He simply looked at her, his frown deepening.

“You can’t keep your eyes still when you lie,” she added, tilting her head towards him, her stare becoming knowing.

“I was reading,” he said, holding up her phone. She shook her head once.

“Still lying.” And she returned to her own reading, becoming fully engrossed within seconds, her glasses sliding a bit further down her nose.

Sherlock gave her a glare which she did not return, and looked back to the article she had given him. The screen lit up and he found his place again, his scowl disappearing as the old case once again took over his thoughts.

By the time he had finished reading the article, Watson had more fully relaxed into the couch and into…him. Her bent knees were now resting over his thighs, and she had the book pulled closer toward her chest, likely to see better in the dim light.

Sherlock lowered Watson’s phone and was about to readjust himself when he made a realization. Watson was not seeing anything in the dim light—her eyes were closed. Her head was inches from resting on his arm, propped up on her hand instead, the book nearly closed in the lax fingers of her right hand. Her glasses were now on the very tip of her nose, inviting Sherlock to take them completely off, but he refrained.

By the rate of her breathing he knew she was likely only dozing. Watson could doze anywhere, he’d found. This was the first time she had chosen to do so on top of him, however.

“Watson,” he whispered, her name almost coming out a hiss. She didn’t stir. He became more aware of her weight on him, the way her loosening ponytail had caused her face to turn downward in sleep. He reached in with his left hand and carefully pried the book from her loose grip. She still didn’t stir.

“Watson,” he repeated, changing to a stage whisper. He tapped the book against her right arm that was within easy reach. “I can’t feel my legs, Watson,” he said, strangely hesitant to raise his voice further. It had been far too long since he’d seen Watson’s freckles so up close.

She only sighed in her sleep. Sherlock dared not take any deep breaths, and so to distract himself looked at the book in his hands to see where Watson had left off. The memory of her smile when she had discovered the book kept him reading, and also kept his fidgeting to a minimum as he let her sleep on.


	6. Surprise Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elaina is the blonde sex worker from 1x11—I chose the name. “Purcell” is the last name of the Russian spies in that episode.

Joan walked into the brownstone, saw what was in the library, and immediately wanted to turn and walk right back out despite the 14 below wind chill. But Sherlock easily spotted her from where he sat in front of the fireplace.

“Ah, Watson! Glad you’re here!” Sherlock piped up, springing to his feet. She remained on the threshold of the room, refusing to budge.

“Why,” she said, her stare managing to hold trepidation, anger, and exasperation all at once—she could tell solely by the way Sherlock walked toward her, his hands tense and his chin up as if he expected her to punch him in the jaw.

He got within a foot of her, bouncing visibly on his heels and leaning slightly forward to whisper, “I’ll explain presently,” then straightened and spoke in a louder voice. “We’ll go down and make some tea, then. Be right back, Elaina!” He spoke the last over his shoulder, then gestured Joan silently back toward the kitchen door. Joan gave him a hard look that clearly said, _This better be good_ , before walking past him and leading the way down to the kitchen.

As soon as Joan reached the kitchen counter she rounded on Sherlock, finding him with his hands still in fists, his mouth a tight line. He raised one hand and opened it palm out in a placating gesture. “This is not what you think, Watson.”

She took a second to bite her cheek and turn down her anger before it came out as yelling. In a normal voice she managed to say, “I have no clue what this is supposed to be, Sherlock. Don’t presume to know what I’m thinking.” A normal volume, yes, but she saw Sherlock mentally take a step back at the venom in her tone.

She raised a finger to point up toward the stairs, fighting to keep her breath steady as she gestured. “Explain. _Quickly_. Why the prostitute from the Purcell case is in our library, on the sex blanket, _in only her underwear_.”

It had been months since Sherlock had brought an exercise partner to the brownstone. And whenever he had, he always gave Joan fair warning, and usually bought her a hotel room for the night if need be. If this wasn’t what he had thought she would assume it was, she didn’t think the true explanation could be much better.

Sherlock nodded once, his ability to keep his eyes on her face the only reason she could keep her anger under control. He knew exactly how easily she could spot a lie.

“Elaina actually contacted me for a case. It just so happened that crucial evidence for the case is located on her person in rather private areas, forcing her to disrobe.”

He was punctuating his words with forward motions of his hands, his gaze moving down the further he got. Joan countered his explanatory gesturing with a single raise of her hand. He immediately looked up and stopped talking.

“Putting aside that that is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard, why didn’t you call or text me letting me know you had picked up a case? I was gone for over two hours. She’s been here at least one hour.” His brow furrowed in question. She rolled her eyes. “The fire in our fireplace, Sherlock. I haven’t forgotten my lessons on the rate of wood burning, believe me.”

“I didn’t contact you because Elaina forced me to give her my phone battery in exchange for hearing her case, as collateral. She did not want me contacting anyone until I’d heard the entire story.” His fists opened and closed a couple times, as he studied the expression of disgusted disbelief she was fighting not to show. “I was too occupied listening to her case to contact you by other means.”

She gave him a deadpan stare, communicating her skepticism even more clearly. He remained tight-lipped, his eyes wide with the expectation she would eventually accept his words. She turned and began the process of preparing tea, visibly resisting the urge to slam the tea kettle down.

“And the sex blanket?” she said, her back to him.

The few beats of silence told her he was fighting not to protest the term. She knew how he disliked it. It was all that was giving her any satisfaction right now.

“Elaina refused to dress after explaining her case to me. Instead of sitting on the furniture, she thought it acceptable to continue our conversation on the faux fur blanket. There was no intention of sex involved, Watson.” She had set the water to boiling, and so now turned to raise both brows at him. He still looked decidedly frustrated at her demeanor. Good.

“Look at me, Watson. I am fully clothed in my usual business attire.” He spread his arms to indicate his clothes, which were indeed his usual trousers, buttoned up shirt, and jacket. “You detected no perfume on my person, nor makeup stains or marks. What reason would I have to surprise you by conducting coitus in broad daylight in our library without warning?”

The steadily rising volume of his voice didn’t tell her he was angry—quite the contrary. His frustration was another form of his embarrassment. He was actually afraid she was disappointed, she could see it.

“I never said that. You assumed that’s what I would think,” she said, before turning back towards the cabinets to retrieve three mugs and three tea bags. “You’re usually more self-assured when you know you’re in the right, Sherlock. That you aren’t now is what put me on edge. You’re not telling me something,” she continued, keeping her back to him.

She could hear his foot tapping. His stare was hard on the back of her head, she could feel it. The silence stretched. Joan chose linden flower tea with lemon balm for Sherlock, hibiscus for herself and Elaina.  

“She renewed her previous offer to the two of us,” he said, his voice flat.

Joan took down the jar of honey that came from Sherlock’s hives, before turning to face Sherlock again. He was uncannily still now, only the fingers of one hand fidgeting close to his side. She leaned back against the counter, raising her chin slightly.

“I see. You didn’t exactly decline, did you? Why is that?” she said, her words coming out calm, but that seemed to have the opposite effect on Sherlock. She could see his breath quickening from here.

“I do not presume to know your thoughts, Watson. I would not decline nor agree to anything on your behalf,” he said, his voice as stiff as his body. Now that he’d been caught in his lie of omission, he was no longer frustrated, but he was far from at ease. She tilted her head, considering, but before she could speak the loud whistle of the kettle told them the water was boiling.

Sherlock didn’t move, so Joan took up the kettle, turned off the stove, and poured the water into the three waiting mugs. She picked up Sherlock’s mug and stepped forward to hand it to him.

He refused to let their fingers brush as he took the mug from her, but she stayed where she was, less than two feet in front of him, staring directly into his eyes. “You believe she made an excuse to take off her clothes in order to tempt me,” she said, her voice softening.

He straightened slightly, his mouth twitching closer to a frown. “Not an excuse, exactly. Her body did sport valuable evidence of the crime committed.”

“Hmm. But not entirely necessary evidence, I’m guessing,” she said dryly. The downward turn of Sherlock’s mouth was answer enough. She gave a small smile back, but turned away before he could see her full expression.

“I’ll bring up the honey,” she said, retrieving a tray to carry the rest of their beverages upstairs. “You can go up and tell Elaina we’ll both hear her case.”

She turned to see Sherlock standing with his mug held tightly in front of him and one eyebrow raised.

“And you might try to get your phone battery back before I come up. Unless you want me to be the one to take off her bra,” she said, setting down the tray to lean against the counter again, tapping the fingers of one hand against her thigh. “I might choose to be less polite than you’ve been thus far.”

They studied each other’s expressions for a few seconds, and Joan raised one brow in question, mirroring him. Finally the glimpse of a smile appeared on Sherlock’s mouth, before he turned and headed upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally a response to the prompt: "I have no clue what this is supposed to be". I continue to ignore the winter/holiday theme of the original prompt list and write more shippy content. Or I think I do - I try to challenge myself by leaving it up to interpretation. 
> 
> This scene takes place between the polyamory episode (4x04) and whatever catalyst event I conspire to put these two physically together (I mean this scene _could_ be that catalyst event but I’ll leave it up to you). Honestly I just imagine Fiona, Sherlock, and Joan being in an open polyamorous relationship together later in season 4 because _why not._


	7. Actions Speak Louder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally an ask meme response for tacohead13, posted [ here](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/159122337468/118-i-dont-deserve-you-im-so-excited-to).

Sherlock came back from his meeting sometime near 10pm, after picking up some Thai take away for both him and Watson. He was surprised to see the library windows dark when he came upon the brownstone, and stepped inside with cautious, soft steps.

The fire was dying in the grate, and he immediately noticed Watson had pulled the red couch closer to it to utilize its warmth. But that must’ve been well over an hour ago, judging from the embers barely glowing now.

Rounding the couch, he saw the floor still littered with the case file she’d begun the night before, papers and photographs spread in an organized chaos that only he and Watson could decipher. But in this light it was impossible to tell what conclusions his partner had made.

Setting the take away on a side table, Sherlock stepped closer to study Watson’s sleeping form. He could only see her forehead and the bridge of her nose, beneath the cascade of her loose dark hair, now tangled beneath her left hand she’d tucked under her head. She had curled herself in the fetal position, the chill in the room attesting to the necessity of conserving heat. The rest of her was covered securely by the duvet. She’d even tucked the duvet underneath her arm and knee that touched the cushions as further barrier against the cold. Against his will, his mouth twisted with sympathy.

His eyes were drawn away from her tightly curled form by the vibration and light from Watson’s phone—he silently gave thanks to Watson’s past self for putting it on vibrate, and himself for keeping his own phone on silent from the meeting. He’d checked his phone constantly while waiting for their Thai dinner, but now he knew why Watson had been remiss in contacting him about the case.

Watson’s phone was on the floor right in front of her, conveniently face up so Sherlock only had to tilt his head a bit to read the text that had come in. It was from Marcus.

_Found perp @sister’s like u said. Cpt calling it a night. wants u there for intergtn tmrw @8_

There was a thumbs up emoji at the end of the last statement, brown in color to match Marcus’s skin. Sherlock took it to mean “Good job” or something of the sort. The detective had never sent _him_ an emoji.  

Sherlock crinkled his nose in displeasure, resolving to send Marcus plenty of emojis the next time texting became necessary between them. Maybe he would include that poop emoji just to annoy him.

Looking away from Watson’s phone just as it went dark again, Sherlock slowly knelt down to look over the contents of the case file Watson had put out. That she had fallen asleep with everything still spread in her complex mosaic told him she had been waiting for Marcus’s reply before cleaning up for the night.

He took out his own smartphone and turned on the flashlight to see better, careful to keep the beam pointed away from Watson. It only took him seconds to discern her train of thought, how she’d come to the conclusion of the murderer’s whereabouts. It would have taken days for the police to conclude what she had in less than twenty-four hours. He knew for a fact she had slept less than five of those hours, the case having come to them late the night before, and she the first to be at the scene with Marcus and the Captain.

When she had brought the case back to the brownstone, her hesitancy around him had been immediately evident. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to learn why. The murderer was a drug dealer that Sherlock was very familiar with, from his months in New York before rehab, and the murder weapons had been several syringes containing heroin forcefully inserted into the victim. But unlike the Talbott murder from over four years ago, this case hit too close to home. Sherlock had attended three meetings since that conversation between him and Watson took place, leaving the case entirely to her and their colleagues at the precinct.

Turning off the smartphone’s flashlight, Sherlock began to clean up as quietly as he could, moving all the papers into a neat pile. After setting the file aside in the lock room, he came back to build up the fire, seeing Watson still sound asleep.

After the fire began crackling merrily before him, Sherlock settled back on his heels, and looked again to Watson. She had shifted in her sleep, and now had her torso twisted so her shoulders lay parallel to the couch, but her knees were still bent to the side. He could barely discern her profile, her head turned mostly away from him, both her hands cast on top of the duvet over her stomach. She still wore her day clothes, her blouse half-unbuttoned, one bra strap now revealed by her movements.

Sherlock debated whether he should try to pull the duvet back up to her chin, but studying the position of her arms decided against it. He didn’t want to risk waking her. Getting to his feet, he went to move past the couch to retrieve his dinner and eat alone in the kitchen. But his last glance at Watson’s profile made him stop next to her, the glance turning into an unintentional focus on the events of the day, and Watson’s role in them.

Before he could analyze his actions, he reached down and allowed his fingers the barest brush against the loose tendrils of hair around Watson’s face.

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed, his lungs suddenly feeling tight inside his ribcage, something about the faded freckles on Watson’s cheeks and the small wrinkles at the edge of her closed eyes pulling the words out of him. His fingers strayed to almost touch her cheek, but then a log snapped in the fireplace and the moment was broken. Sherlock took his hand away, clenching it in a fist, and continued down to the kitchen.

Approximately four hours later, Joan woke up to a decent sized fire in the grate before her, the case file gone, and an extra blanket neatly folded at her feet. Disoriented, she blindly groped for her phone to check the time. 2:28. Then how was the fire—?

Sherlock. Half raising herself on one elbow, Joan looked around the dark library, but saw no one. Her mind was still half filled with her recent dreams, and she was confused to feel disappointment rising in her chest that he wasn’t there. He had appeared so close in her dream, she had expected him to be standing over her when she opened her eyes.

Shaking her head, Joan looked back at her phone and noticed Marcus’s text. A wide grin spread across her face.  


	8. Satisfied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally a response to a prompt from actiaslunaris posted [ here](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/160135526638/satisfied).

Sherlock didn’t make it habit to bring her breakfast in bed. If he had she would’ve thought he was hiding something (in the kitchen to be precise, like that one time he’d kept various pig parts in the refrigerator, after which she’d insisted they get a second refrigerator for the basement).

He only brought breakfast into her room while they were on a case, and he knew she had worked late and/or eaten very little the previous evening. Or he had a point to prove. It didn’t matter if she was awake for the delivery of the food or not, whether he was present when she woke. He always found a way to leave some sort of message with her first repast. Usually pertaining to where he’d gotten with the case overnight, or an address telling her where to meet him and when.

But her favorites were the scavenger hunts.

He never called them that. Only Joan did. But it was enough for her that he bothered to lay out multiple notes for her to find, knowing exactly what order she would get to them because he knew her routine so well. Once he’d even hidden the third note of a hunt in her sock drawer, knowing it was cold enough she would choose to wear heavier socks for their walk around the large, outdoor crime scene.

The notes usually accompanied the food. But one morning it was different. Her alarm went off precisely on time, she turned it off twice, and got up. The first note was on her nightstand, where her phone had been.

_Come downstairs as soon as you are able. No need to dress._

Raising her eyebrows, she pulled the covers off and put her bare feet to the floor, inching them into her slippers. A crinkling against her right foot told her where the second note was.

_Breakfast is in the library._

This gave Joan some trepidation. Was he hiding something in the kitchen again? Grabbing her red cardigan, she made her way quickly downstairs. Hopefully it wasn’t anything more than setting off a bomb he had to clean up, or even an unexpected guest. Anything was better than animal parts in the fridge. Or roosters.

Immediately she noticed he had a fire going in their fireplace. Granted the winter chill was still lingering this early in March, so she was grateful.

Second she saw Sherlock, still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, cross-legged on the floor, his brow creased as he intently picked apart something in his hands. Something which left a pinkish liquid all over his hands.

“Sherlock?” Joan approached him, not bothering to hide her confusion. He glanced up at her in acknowledgment, but then returned his focus to whatever he was holding. She noticed there was a plate and knife in front of him, and a dishtowel already stained with more of the pinkish substance.

“Is that my breakfast?” she said, barely making it a question. Studying the lines around his eyes, she knew she’d have to ease him into telling her what was wrong with the kitchen. Or what was _in_ the kitchen that he didn’t want her stumbling onto quite yet.

“No,” Sherlock said, his tone distracted. He pointed a finger to a small bowl on the side table to his right. “That is. This will be mine.”

In the bowl she found the mysterious source of the pink juice coating Sherlock’s hands. Pomegranate seeds.

She popped a couple in her mouth and turned back to him. “Why are you picking them apart up here? You’re a mess.”

“I’m testing a theory,” he said, glancing at her again. A short, sidelong glance that made her more suspicious.

She ate another seed, looking down at him. A few beats of silence passed while a few more pink seeds dropped onto Sherlock’s plate.

“What theory?” she said, staring resolutely at his face even as he remained fully focused on dissecting his breakfast. She popped three more seeds in her mouth.

“Our victim was poisoned by a particular substance hidden in her food, yet no food was found in her stomach by the ME,” Sherlock began, picking up the last quarter of his pomegranate to get the last of the seeds.

Joan suppressed an eye roll and sat down in the chair to his right. He would reveal his plan to her in his own time, she knew. “Right, but we know the poison killed her in seconds. It was absorbed through her skin, she didn’t have to ingest it.”

Sherlock hummed in response. “Results came back on the residue found around the victim’s mouth and on her fingers. Pomegranate juice.”

Joan looked down at her bowl of pomegranate seeds. “But she didn’t ingest any seeds,” she said thoughtfully.

“Which leads to my theory,” Sherlock said, just before he picked up a few seeds and all but shoved them in his mouth. She suppressed a smile, knowing he hadn’t eaten anything since around 2pm yesterday. He wouldn’t touch the take away she’d brought in last night, too focused on their case.

Looking down at her own bowl of seeds, Joan didn’t catch Sherlock’s sudden movement until he was literally caging her in the chair with his arms on either side of her.

She stiffened, feeling his legs brush against hers as he leaned in. Her hands were occupied holding the bowl in her lap, and her mind scrambled in the process of debating if it was worth it upending the seeds everywhere to shove him off.

Before she could decide he was kissing her.

The tart sweetness of pomegranates filled her mouth as his mouth pressed down on hers. Her pulse ran wild and she responded against her better sense, leaning up into the kiss and opening to him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue gently meeting hers. There was another burst of sweetness on her tongue, and she realized he’d slipped pomegranate seeds into her mouth. Surprised, she leaned slightly away. He leaned back too. She opened her eyes, having no memory of closing them.

The pounding of her heart against her chest was accompanied by the realization they were both breathing hard. Unconsciously she chose to focus on his eyes. Dilated. As soft and dark as she had ever seen them. There was sweat on his brow from the nearby heat of the fire. His lips moist from the pomegranate juice and her equal fervor in returning his kiss. She blinked rapidly.

She felt his deep exhale against her skin as he pushed himself away. She caught a grin crossing his face, and was amazed to see a hint of sheepishness in his expression. But when he turned back to her, his eyes were sharp, his expression stoically energized again.

“The killer delivered their poison through a slip of the tongue, as it were,” he declared, licking some of the juice off of his fingers. He could not look at her, she noted. She licked her lips, setting aside her bowl of seeds distractedly, before rising.

“There was a placebo pill,” she said, looking up at him with determined control in her voice.

He stopped fidgeting and sucking on his right middle finger and looked at her. Almost tucking his head, his eyes moving surreptitiously. He was waiting for anger, and confused he wasn’t getting it from her.

“In the seeds you gave me…just now,” she said. Her heart was still pounding, her breathing a little unsteady. She swallowed. “The victim, she spit them out, but it was too late.”

He hummed, his shoulders straightening with renewed confidence. “Yes. We now know the victim was very intimate with her murderer. The Kiss of Death. Killer likely thought it was romantic.” There was the customary heaviness to the last word that delivered his derision, but Joan had already turned away to grab her phone.

“I’ll call Gregson,” she said, walking toward the door to the kitchen steps. At the top of the steps she stopped, half turning back toward the library. “Do you want coffee? I’m going to make some,” she said a bit louder, not wanting to look directly at him but wanting her voice to carry enough so he could hear her.

“Please,” he answered, and she gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before heading downstairs. She clutched her phone in one hand, holding her cardigan tightly closed with the other. If he noticed they had been shaking, he would know better than to mention it.  


End file.
